


Bunnies and Bandoliers

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could Thrush be up to at a family Easter gathering?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bunnies and Bandoliers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 easter egg fest on the live journal community mfufuss, for mrua7. Prompts were "vodka bottle" and "Easter bunny costume."

Late Easter morning, several dozen young lads and lasses dressed in their holiday finest wandered around the manicured lawns of J. Patterson Gilmore’s exclusive Connecticut estate looking in the grass, in the bushes, and in rushes around the duck pond for Easter eggs. Their parents lingered on the patio that overlooked the extensive grounds, enjoying the hors d'oeuvres and the open bar. Off to the side, at a corner of the junction where the patio merged with lawn, a brightly-colored tent-- tall enough to accommodate several adults standing, wide enough to house several adults sleeping-- rested, its happy stripes and cheerful ruffles promising something fun would emerge. The children kept away... some by choice (since they were told not to go near it... yet) and some by a gentle prodding of a crisply-tailored white-jacketed servant.

 

Other servants dotted the expanse, helping the littlest find eggs and keeping the more ambitious ones away from the pond (or the littlest ones’ baskets). With the children vaguely looked after, the parents seized the opportunity to drink Mr. Gilmore out of house and home. Gilmore didn’t mind; he hosted the yearly event in part so he could give back to the community (and perhaps sway some of the young parents over to his way of thinking). His wife, wheelchair-bound and content to observe from afar from the comfort of her second-storey bedroom, enjoyed seeing little ones wander around the estate as well. 

 

Gilmore worked the crowd, personally pouring refills of his infamous honey-sweetened martini. He chose not to notice the young couples purposely pouting out the revolting concoction onto the lawn before heading to the bar for a better drink. One couple, however, caught his eye. The husband was of slight stature, with suspiciously long blond hair and icy blue eyes. His dark suit and tie and crisp white shirt passed inspection; so did his casual arm around his striking ginger wife. The wife-- hair pinned up properly, in a modest skirt, twin-set, and flats, lightly made-up, leaned into her spouse as if she had not a care in the world. “You must be the new family,” Gilmore observed.

 

“Yes, that’s right,” the wife said. “I’m April, this is Ian. We so appreciate the invitation! It was unexpected, us having just moved in a fortnight ago and everything....”

 

“Well, look at is as a grand welcome to the neighborhood.” He kissed April’s hand before turning to Ian. “So, Ian, what is it you do for a living?”

 

Ian shrugged. “Pretty much what everyone else does who lives in this area. Commute.”

 

“Tres droll, lad, tres droll.” He refilled Ian’s martini glass. “Which ones are yours?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Which kids?” Gilmore waved vaguely at the lawn.

 

“Oh, just the one,” April stated. She pointed at a toddler with a mess of strawberry blonde curls who contemplated each blade of grass carefully as she searched for eggs. Her basket, from what the adults could tell, was empty. “That’s Laurie. She’s nearly 17 months.”

 

“No eggs yet, eh? Well, no matter, I’m sure the Easter bunny patrol will make sure she’s stocked up once they get here.” Gilmore checked his watch. “Won’t be long now. Enjoy!” He wandered off to top off the next couple’s glasses.

 

“Ian” promptly poured his martini into a nearby urn. “So... what do we know so far, wife?”

 

“Well, husband,” she replied with a raised eyebrow, “Everyone here seems legit.” She snuggled into his outstretched arm, to both better maintain the cover and to analyse without being overheard. “Every couple here checks out. No known ties to Thrush. Nothing in their background-- for several generations-- that could be blackmail fodder. Well, other than the odd illegitimate offspring and illicit affair, but that’s nothing for this class of people.”

 

“Gilmore himself also checks out. Just an old, rich man, trying to make his wife happy. How about the help?”

 

According to Mark, everything’s legit. The only thing suspicious is the agency supplying the costumed Easter bunnies. That’s why your partner’s infiltrating them. Oh, I hope this isn’t some wild Thrush chase. I’d hate to think I wasted 2 weeks worrying about Laurie for nothing.”

 

“Speaking of your niece.... I am curious as to why you chose me to pose as your husband rather than Mark or my partner.”

 

“I trust Mark with my life, which is why I wanted him to be in position to guard Laurie and the other kids. As for you, well, you look more like you could be her father than Napoleon does. Besides, it’s about time he don the ridiculous costume.”

 

“True enough,” the man usually called Illya agreed. He led his pantomime wife closer to the patio edge, to better observe both the tent and the very little girl in the grass.

 

******

Napoleon Solo could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. He hated dress-up, unless it involved a well-pressed tuxedo and french cuffs. He especially hated being stuck in a smelly, ratty old fur suit with an equally-smelly full-head chapeau with barely enough airspace or eyeholes. Still, the end-- whatever that would turn out to be-- was in sight. Until then, he would ignore the sweat and smell as best he could and play along with the Thrush goons.

 

Said head goon peered out of the tent flat every few seconds, tapping his fur-covered foot with annoyance. “Come on, Sal, come on.....” His impatience looked comical on the smiley-faced bunny suit he wore.

 

“He’ll be here, George, he knows the drill.” the other goon, Lenny, assured. Lenny passed the time by counting and recounting all the eggs in his large basket. 

 

Napoleon put on his best lower-class, whiney accent. “Do we hafa wait for Sal? More cash for us if we don’t, right?”

 

“You weren’t briefed very well, were you?” Lenny said. “Sal’s bringing all the gear.”

 

“What gear? We got baskets, we got eggs, what more do we need?”

 

George turned on Napoleon suddenly. “You weren’t briefed, were you?”

 

“Well, ah, no, not in so many words.”

 

“Are you  sure you’re from H.Q.?”

 

“Oh, yes, yes I am.”  I just won’t tell you which one,  he added silently. “Look, what’s da big deal? Ned took sick, they called me in, told me I’d be brought up to speed when I got here. I’m still waiting! And it’s getting frickin’ hot in this bunny suit.”

 

“Still--”

 

“Still what?” a new voice questioned. A fourth bunny stepped into the tent, lugging a large green bag. “No one help me or anything, geezus.”

 

“Sorry Sal! Sorry!” Lenny immediately took the bag from Sal and began rifling through it.

 

“Careful, Lenny, that might explode.” Sal noticed Napoleon. “Say.... you’re not Ned.”

 

“No, I’m his sub.”

 

“Sub?”

 

George confirmed, “Yeah, Ned took sick, so New Ned here’s his replacement.”

 

“Does he check out?”

 

“I asked him the code phrase and he knew it.”

 

“Did you ask him the new one?”

 

George cocked his head. “New one? Isn’t the one about the big cheese getting his at midnight the new one?”

 

“Nyah, that’s the old one. I got the new one just now from HQ, ‘cause the boys heard that somebody’s U.N.C.L.E. might be snooping around here today.” Sal motioned toward Napoleon with a jerk of both hands. George obediently grabbed Napoleon from behind, holding his arms as tightly as he could considering they both wore rabbit costumes. “Okay, New Ned, what’s today’s pass phrase?”

 

“Ah.... poor Flopsy’s dead and never called me mother.”

 

Sal remained silent. George tightened his grip. Lenny looked up. “Time for rabbit stew, Sal?”

 

The leader remained silent another minute before relaxing. “You’re ok, New Ned.”

 

“Gee, thanks.”  George released Napoleon; Napoleon made a show of dusting imaginary dirt off his fur. “Now-- what’s the plan, boss?”

 

“We strap on the bandoliers, grab the guns, and come out shooting. Remember to take out just the adults-- it’s the kids we want.”

 

“Right, ransom,” Napoleon agreed.

 

“Nix on the ransom. New world order. Let them witness their parents’ death, they see the world’s awful, they become loyal to Thrush to life. And also hate Easter, which is just as well ‘cause Thrush don’t cotton to no religion except their own.”

 

Lenny sighed. “But.... I like the Easter bunny, Sal.”

 

“I know, Len, that’s why you got to choose your costume first. Make with the weaponry.”

 

Lenny nodded, passing out bandoliers. The other rabbits strapped them on, then accepted the rifles offered to them. “Oh, don’t forget your baskets!” Lenny reminded.

 

“Len, really, they’ll get in the way of shooting people.”

 

“Easter bunnies gotta have egg baskets! It’s the law!”

 

“I’ll take mine,” Napoleon said nonchalantly.  His  basket had special treats reserved just for the three Thrushes. 

 

“Yeah, why not,” George agreed. “It will add to the confusion.”

 

“Fine, fine, let’s just get this over with. The wife’s gonna have my head if I don’t get home in time to carve the ham.” He disengaged the rifle’s safety mechanism before moving the tent flap inside. “For the glory of Thrush!” he called out before running out of the tent.

 

*****

 

Illya and April didn’t need to playact to appear shocked at the appearance of four heavily-armed 7 foot tall bunnies storming the estate-- it was an incongruous thing to see, even for two experienced U.N.C.L.E. agents. The rifles being pointed at the parents on the patio, though, snapped them into action. “Down!” Illya cried, lunging for the nearest couple to drag them onto the concrete.”

 

“Guns!” April echoed, pulling a nearby woman to the ground.

 

The Thrush rabbits opened fire; Solo hurled several eggs into the others’ path. The eggs promptly exploded upon contact with the ground, releasing a heady lime green cloud that almost immediately rendered them unconscious. The sight of three overgrown bunnies falling in a heap would have been comical if it wasn’t for the shock of what had just happened and for the tentative wails coming from the children who had witnessed it.

 

Napoleon, covering both his own part in it and deflecting blame to a group that the innocents would understand, began singing loudly and off-key.” “One, two, three, what are we fighting for?” He artfully staggered, as if sucumbing to the gas slower than the others did. “Don’t tell me, I don’t... giva dayum... next stop is...”  He fell to the ground, pretending to be unconscious.

 

Those mothers scared but unharmed immediately swarmed onto the grass, finding their children and dragging them off, presumably back home. Some fathers got into the act, too; others gathered around Gilmore, watching as their better halves tended to the kids and as Kuryakin tended to the handful of minor wounds. 

 

Dancer hesitated a moment, torn between tending to her niece and tending to the wounded. She spotted her partner beelining for the tiny gingery girl, so she turned her attention to the nearest bleeding mother. “Hey, let me take a look-- it’s ok, I was a Girl Scout.....”

 

Gilmore observed the scene, shaking his head and sighing finally. The other males around him imitated him, all clearly using the event to suck up further to an important man. “Stupid hippies.”

  
  


*****

 

An hour or so later, the four agents and the toddler had rendezvoused back at the elegant home belonging to April’s sister and family that had been,er, “borrowed” for the operation. (The family hadn’t actually moved in; April sent off sister and husband on an extravagant trip while she “minded” Laurie and “redecorated” the dwelling since her family believed her to be an interior designer.) Laurie had curled up on Illya’s lap on the barcalounger, snoozing as she clutched the fuzzy brown stuffed bunny she had been given for the holiday. Mark, half-dressed in the Gilmore Servant Garb, lounged on the nearby love seat. Napoleon-- hair still damp from a quick shower and wearing chinos and a polo shirt-- rested on the sofa.

 

April brought in a tray laden with four glasses filled with ice, a pitcher of an orangy-yellow punch, a bottle of vodka, a small plate of cookies, and napkins. “All right, fellas, I think we earned this. It’s my aunt’s favorite spring tipple. You can have it with or without a kick, your choice.” She played hostess, letting each gentleman help himself before she placed the tray on the coffee table and helped herself. Settling in on the sofa corner opposite Solo, she remarked, “So-- went well?”

 

“All things considered, love, yes,” Mark confirmed. “Seven adults with superficial injuries, a dozen scared-but-placated children, three Thrush operatives in custody and singing sweetly.”

 

“Not that they’re giving us much,” Illya added. “They’re fairly low level.” Laurie stirred; he gathered her and the rabbit closer to him, murmuring soothing words until she drifted off again.

 

The other three agents took in the scene. Kuryakin noted their observation, and met their looks in a rare show of honesty. “In some alternate universe, yes.”

 

“Still-- happy Easter, my friend.” Napoleon raised his glass in salute; Mark and April joined in.


End file.
